


Stud: Or, the Unwonted Influence of Lord Trevelyan and Lisette de Rouen, Thoroughbreds

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Sex, Aristocracy, Aristocrat!Sherlock, Big House AU, Bisexuality, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys Kissing, Clothed Sex, Clothing Kink, Equestrian, Femslash, First Time, Het and Slash, Implied Bestiality, Kissing, Light BDSM, Multi, Oral Sex, Regency, Sorry Not Sorry, Threesome - M/M/M, Top John, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, also very smutty, although probably not for the poor garden implements, did I say clothing kink?, groom!John, misuse of garden implements, sort of, this is very silly, though unrelated to garden implements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:43:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes, second son of a baronet, is in charge of the horse breeding at Holmes Manor, and, by these means, rocks the house (and the hayloft, and the stables, and the garden shed) to its foundations by creating a sexual chaos so great and legendary that it will forever be remembered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Sherlock Holmes, and I explain how things began.

It was, of course, Sherlock Holmes that started all the trouble, if trouble it can indeed be called.

“If ever anyone is wilful, it’s him,” Lady Holmes insisted, rather fondly than otherwise, when she first heard of the plan. Baronet Holmes nodded from his chair in the corner.

Mycroft Holmes also preserved silence, as he felt there was really nothing to say. It was, in fact, he that had given Sherlock free rein over the breeding shed, and so whatever enormities Sherlock committed within that purview were, ultimately, Mycroft’s own fault, and he had no love for admitting it. Too, he felt that the minor scandal was just that, minor, and after all, if Sherlock was occupied in playing Cupid, of a sort, at least he wasn’t putting the wind up the magistrates or plotting to make Mycroft’s own life unliveable.

Nobody else had anything much to say on the matter either—not even Sherlock, surprising though it may seem—as they were rather more involved with, shall we say, the consequences of the day.

—————

John Watson objected, of course, before it even happened, as he does, because even though he’s a groom and Sherlock Holmes is decidedly not, John Watson can tell Sherlock Holmes what to do some of the time.

This time, though, there was no help for it. Sherlock was set in his idea, and he would stick to it. Later, when taken to task by Mycroft, he swore that it was the underlying human condition, helped along by a cultural insistence on spring as the time for love, that was responsible.

Of course, if you are one of Sherlock Holmes’ prize Thoroughbred stallions, spring _is_ the time for love, or at least mating.

“Sherlock, it just makes no sense.” John Watson was heard to exclaim, as he followed his lord and master to the paddock, “You’ve got a bloody great breeding shed right there for this very purpose, and yet you’ve decided to do this outside? Have you lost your mind?”

This, of course, should have been guaranteed to get a reaction, because Sherlock Holmes has a very fine brain and doesn’t hesitate to inform anyone and everyone about it at great length—that is, if he’s not discoursing on horse bloodlines. I’ve learned to tune him out, the dear boy, but it has taken practice.

In this case, though, Sherlock did not rise to the bait. He simply continued on his way, tossing “Get Lisette de Rouen, John, and curb your tongue.” over his shoulder. John stopped in his tracks and watched his lordship go, but did as he was told, and it was when he led the dainty grey mare into the paddock and let her loose that it all began.

We will draw a curtain over what happened in the lord’s bedroom (Baronet and Lady Holmes having requested it). Furthermore, for the sake of decency we will not report the way in which stable boy Philip Anderson lived up to his name (my own decency having required it).

However, the stories of the others can be related with great relish, so, gentle reader, take the stories laid out before you as absolute truth, related to you by an entirely reliable eyewitness: myself.


	2. Virtue Rewarded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Gregory Lestrade, butler, found Molly Hooper, kitchen maid, bent over a divan in the blue drawing room.

Now the house, as every great house so often is, was a seething hotbed of tension; at the time, it was a seething hotbed of sexual tension. Frankly, it was starting to affect the smooth running of the place in a way; twice that week, Lord Holmes’ eggs had not been properly cooked, and the dusting of the drawing rooms was atrocious, to say nothing of the dirty fork Master Mycroft found at luncheon on the 11th.

The dirty fork was the work of Molly, the kitchenmaid, and she was, bless her, properly sorry. A very sweet girl, Molly, hardworking, pretty, and much too bright for her job. This hadn’t escaped the notice of the butler, Lestrade. Now, you mustn’t think it was that sort of thing; Gregory Lestrade was a sober man, and very respectful of the girls on staff, and the boys too, when it comes to that. But something about Molly’s lovely, winsome face had gotten past the man’s defenses, and he followed her around with his eyes whenever he could and his mind whenever he couldn’t.

She, in turn, giggled when she saw him in the corridor, and was always very respectful of him when he asked her for things, but it hadn’t gone beyond much more than a few chaste kisses on their Sunday walks.

Until, of course, Sherlock brought his stud, Lord Trevelyan (he claimed not to have named it after the most pompous peer in the district, but he did. They both have enormous tallywhackers, long faces, and tiny brains, which must signify at least somewhat) to the paddock.

Molly had just been washing dishes and gazing out the window, when she saw the pair go by. She idolizes young Master Sherlock, always has, and so, knowing that the cook, Harriet Watson, had repaired to the pantry with a bottle, she nipped out of the scullery and into the blue drawing room, which faced towards the back of the house and, thus, the paddock. When he let Trevelyan in, Molly guessed what he was after doing, and, tucking herself up on a chair (in a way that is strictly forbidden for house staff, might I add), watched, openmouthed, as Trevelyan approached Lisette de Rouen and sniffed her. The mare jumped squealing away, but came back, and let the stallion sniff her again, his great machine unfurling as he did so.

That is how Lestrade found her, her knees on the chair and her elbows on the windowsill, pert arse in the air. He was going to remonstrate with her (as I have said, he has always been scrupulously fair), but just then she sighed at the sight before her. The soft, breathy sound went straight to the proportionally impressive machine under his impeccable trousers, and though he attempted to gain control of it, he stepped forward despite himself.

Upon feeling this not-inconsiderable object pressed against her, even through many layers of fabric, Molly sighed again.

“Please,” she said, and it was more than Lestrade could do to say her nay. Grasping the edges of her skirt and petticoats, he flipped them up over her back (it must be said that he did it with a certain flair, having always wanted to make such a gesture and never having been in the right circumstance to do so). The sight of her ribbon-trimmed drawers inflamed his senses further, and he reached out to caress them, and her bottom through them. Molly arched her hips towards him, and he reached through the slit of the drawers to touch her sex, already wet and waiting.

Did Lestrade pause for thought before he unbuttoned the aforementioned impeccable trousers and loosed his raring cock? Almost certainly. However, with his fingers deep inside the warm slickness of the woman he loved, he did not pause for long. He slid his fingers out, and, in passing, over that little bud at the top of her slit, and was rewarded with a trembling “Oooh” from his lady. When he pressed the head of his affair against her wet opening, she swayed her back and pushed against him, and in no time he was firmly seated. Freeing Molly’s bubbies from her modest dress and grasping them with gentle fervour, Lestrade established a rhythm that, from the squeaking on her part and the low growling on his, pleased them both.

In no time at all, they came to the conclusion of their pleasure. Once the convulsions of delight had left them, Lestrade tipped a pink, exhausted Molly into his lap for a kiss of such passion I had to hide my eyes. Then, now mindful of the danger of their situation and the condition of the upholstery, they scampered for the kitchens.


	3. Excellent Receipts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Mary Morstan, ladies’ maid, found Harriet Watson, cook, in the pantry, with a carrot.

Now, perhaps a warning would have been in order for dear Molly and gallant Lestrade, but you can imagine that I did not quite dare to admit that I had peeped at their tryst (and it did, after all, serve my purposes to remain unseen). Molly knew, along with me, and now with you, that Harriet Watson, the cook, had repaired to the pantry with a bottle, as was her wont. However, Miss Watson had barely had the time for a small snort of gin before Mary Morstan, the lovely blond ladies’ maid, burst in. Her colour was high, her bosom heaving, and she was carrying quite a large carrot with her.

Miss Watson, not being so far gone in drink that she did not have all of her senses, found this highly irregular and said so. Mary replied quite sharply, her colour high; it was not, after all, the first argument these two had had. In fact, they clashed regularly over territory, duties, and menus, both thinking the other unequivocally high-and-mighty.

This, however, appeared to be the last straw, and over a root vegetable! Accusations flew on both sides, but it was when Miss Watson called Mary a thief that the first blow was struck. The crack across Miss Watson’s cheek should have sobered them both, but served in fact as a goad. Miss Watson seized the front of Mary’s dress and pulled her in, but a curious thing happened when they were at close range. Instead of throttling Mary as she had intended, Miss Watson kissed her right on the lips.

Now, Mary would never normally have countenanced such a thing, but her blood was not up solely in anger. She too had seen the horses, looking out, in point of fact, just as Lord Trevelyan reared up and possessed Lisette de Rouen with his massive prick. Being a lusty little thing, Mary felt right away a sympathetic twinge in her lace-trimmed linen drawers (lace for ladies’ maids and above, ribbon for housemaids down- that’s what’s right and proper, I say), and sought to relieve it, but all her manipulations were in vain. She had been ruined, you see, although she was a willing participant, and she craved for something, shall we say, more substantial. Being a bright young thing—and Holmes Manor is full of bright young things, although so often they are more troublesome to manage—she bethought herself of the new shipment of carrots from Knight’s farm (now Henry Knight- there’s a young lad who takes management admirably well) and sneaked down to the kitchen to get one. Being too enervated to think of returning upstairs, she snuck into the pantry, thinking that it would be unoccupied, and that is how the whole kerfuffle began.

As I said, though, Mary responded quite favourably to Miss Watson’s overtures, and before too long they were enthusiastically entwined on the small pantry table. Mary had found that her manipulations were just what Miss Watson needed, and Miss Watson was proving quite skilled in the internal application of root vegetables (having divested Mary of the aforementioned drawers).

Oh, they were a sight: red lips, beautiful flushed breasts, and warm damp clefts were to the fore. As I left, moments before Lestrade and Molly came in, they were still at it, though their cries were growing progressively more muted. I had other things to observe, however, as you will no doubt see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the appearance of the carrot is all masked-alias's fault. Entirely.


	4. Not Innocence but Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Miss Anthea, secretary to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, attempted to seduce second footman Stamford, and instead ended up in a very compromising position on the servants' stairs.

It was very irregular of Mr. Mycroft to have a female secretary at all, but I suppose he felt she might be less of a temptation to him, if you take my meaning. And indeed, Anthea was very well-educated, as well as quiet, unobtrusive, and efficient; she did, it is certain, cause a bit of a stir amongst the lower servants, with her beautiful golden skin (what some would call sallow, I suppose, though that is just rank jealousy), sleek chestnut hair, and large brown eyes. She held herself aloof, though, until that fateful day. 

I suppose she had seen the mating out of a window, just as Mary Morstan did, but though she felt the same lustful twinges at the heaving of Lord Trevelyan’s flanks and the high-pitched whinnying of Lisette de Rouen, her fancy did not run to root vegetables or cross cooks. Rather, the heat in her loins drew her to one object: second footman Michael Stamford. 

Now, Stamford’s charms are not immediately apparent. He is not dark-curled and graceful like young Mr. Sherlock, nor sturdy and handsome like John Watson the groom. He doesn’t have the sinewy charm of Moriarty, the gardener, or the brooding appeal of Moran, the under-gardener, or even the tidy compactness of Dimmock, the first footman. He certainly is nothing like young Lyons, the coachman, whose golden skin and perfect proportions put everyone else to shame. But I am getting ahead of my story.

What Stamford did have, along with a tall, though somewhat heavy figure, was a sweet face. Many gentlemen and not a few ladies discount a sweet face in a man, but it is a powerful motivator. In Anthea’s case, it was a motivation to discover just what he knew—or, as she thought, didn’t know—about love. 

And here, I am being delicate. Anthea, like everyone else that day, had a desperate desire for carnal pleasure. She being something of a bluestocking, however, wished to combine carnal pleasure with intellectual inquiry, and the form that inquiry took was quite direct. 

She stalked her prey in a way that demonstrated remarkable restraint, as she appeared to have something quite specific in mind. When she finally did get him where she wanted him—backed up against the top flight of servants’ stairs, which is no easy place to observe without being seen, I can assure you—she went in like a bloodthirsty lioness. Grasping his lapels, she kissed him soundly, then stepped back and reached for her fichu. 

His face at this juncture was blank and wondering. He watched her expose her golden skin with his eyes wide, and stayed sitting, as if frozen, while she unhooked the first hooks of her corset to expose soft, gleaming breasts. She bent towards him, her dusky nipples within range of his lips, and asked,

“Do you like what you see, Stamford? Have you ever had a woman?” 

He reached out to touch, but she slapped his hand away, instead pushing him into a sitting position on the stair and straddling him. Then, when her truly magnificent breasts filled his vision, she guided his hands around to her arse and tipped up his chin to kiss him again. Her teeth sunk into his lip and he closed his eyes, to all appearances completely submissive to this beautiful Amazon. Yet this seeming submission was because he had not yet fully recovered his wits, which are considerable. As Anthea lifted her nipples to his mouth, however, the wind began to change. 

The first indication was a slight tensing of his wrists; he pulled her against him more closely, kilting up her skirts as he did so, and she gasped, loudly and began to squirm. He took advantage of this not to jump for her nipples immediately, and suck like a baby, as so many young men do, but rather to shower her breasts all over with kisses, followed by small but effective bites. When he finally took one of the hard dark buds in his mouth, it was Anthea’s eyes that were glazed, and she looked down at him in wonder. 

Stamford, however, did not blanch, but continued his ministrations, moving to the other nipple and treating it as he had done the first, all the while holding her down in his lap and rocking her tenderly but mercilessly against him. 

I did tell you it was a mistake to be fooled by the sweet face.

Now perhaps I should not tell you this, because I came about this information in a somewhat confidential fashion, but Stamford, in addition to having a good heart and being almost preternaturally attuned to the desires of the female body, is equipped with a tool that is of the most felicitous size: large and broad, yet not so great as to incommode anyone. It was against this lovely rod that Anthea found herself pinned, and she could not restrain her delight and surprise at its rigidity and girth. She reached down, in fact, to attempt to free it from Stamford’s brown wool trousers, but before she could undo the second button, Stamford flipped her on her back and divested her of her drawers. 

Only then did he look up at her, taking in her tousled hair and flushed face, before speaking the only words he would say during the encounter.

“All right, then, Anthea?”

Anthea nodded, but he did nothing until she stammered out a “yes” so soft and lustful that even I almost fainted. It certainly spurred Stamford, who bent before her and laid his tongue upon her soft brown nether curls. It was lovely to watch him; he worked with the flair of a true artist, and before long she was gasping and writhing, clasping his cheeks with her thighs. Three times he brought this on her; when she lay limp and exhausted, he lifted himself up and kissed her rosy lips, breathing in her breath until she lay calm.

He would have gotten up, then, and walked away, heedless of his own pleasure, but there is good stuff in Anthea too. She sat up and, unbuttoning his trousers, took out his heavy, beautiful cock, damp at the tip and hard as ebony. Stretching her pretty mouth around it, she swallowed him down with enviable skill, and he spent before she could choke on him, with a huff of pleasure and a shy smile after.

Stamford may not boast of his conquests, and in fact they may not be numerous, but every one of them has gone away from him feeling loved and satisfied, and for that the dear boy is a matchless and undervalued treasure. 


	5. The Rake's Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How there was an orgy in the garden shed, featuring Jim Moriarty, head gardener, Charles Augustus Magnussen, magistrate, and Sebastian Moran, under-gardener, and how Sally Donovan, housemaid, helped herself to first footman Dimmock.

Now, At this point I had left the house and was on my way to the outbuildings. I am sure you are asking yourself, given my respectability, whether I meant to stop Mr. Sherlock and thus put an end to the undoubtedly indecent events that were occurring all over the estate. However, my aims were of a much more prurient nature, as you will see. It is for this reason that I did not take the direct route; rather, I wended my way around by the garden shed, certain that at such a moment of license I would find something worth looking at, and I did. 

I had long been aware, as someone in my position should be, that James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were an unsavoury pair of characters. They were also lovers, though of course that had nothing at all to do with their personal failings; in fact, that is perhaps what kept them in the Holmes’ employ, as they were devoted at least to each other, if they were not to their jobs. Very shabby the rose garden looked, that summer, too.

However, when I peeped into the garden shed, after ascertaining that it was that building from which the grunts of pleasure I was hearing originated, I was not expecting to see one of the town magistrates, Charles Augustus Magnussen, in congress with the two of them. The gardeners were completely bare, so they must have been up to something prior to the breeding. Magnussen, still in his shirt, must have come up to see the Baronet and gotten…sidetracked, shall we say. I did not, however, expect to see them—two very rough young men—treating a man of such influence and power in such a way. 

Moran’s muscular body dwarfed the other two, was bending Magnussen between them. Moriarty, who, despite his size, dominates Moran, was sitting on a chair, his legs apart, expectantly. This, in itself, was not shocking. What was, was what Moran was doing behind Magnussen with his garden tools. Even I, dear reader, had never imagined such creative uses for a common rake. As Moriarty pushed his cock into Magnussen’s mouth, Moran was warming the magistrate’s arse with the wide end. Red welts rose quickly, but it seemed no penance to Magnussen, as his mid-sized affair swelled with every whack. Moran was also stiff, and, as I watched, transfixed, he coated the round handle liberally with tallow and proceeded to bugger Magnussen with it. 

“Like the stallion, do you, Magnussen?” Moran taunted, thrusting vigorously enough to coax sounds of uncertain origin from the magistrate.

“If he bites me, Seb, I’ll have your head,” Moriarty growled.

Moran laughed, then, after several more thrusts, pulled out the rake and replaced it with something much more fitting, effectively skewering Magnussen between the two. The magistrate looked about to faint with pleasure.

—————

I hastened away just then, not because of the scene, which was utterly fascinating to my eyes, but because the rustle of the (neglected, as I have mentioned) rosebush around the corner told me I was not alone in looking at the engrossed trio before me. Looking around, I saw first footman Dimmock, crouched in the bushes, his prick in his hand. Now, I had never quite thought of Dimmock being that way (and Providence knows I can usually tell), but after a moment, I realized that it was just the nearest bawdy thing he could have seized on after being struck by lust like the others. 

To his great luck, however (and really he should marvel all his days, poor duck), Sally Donovan, the housemaid, descended upon him in a whirl of curls and skirts. Such forethought had she that, as she matter-of-factly batted his hand away, I saw she had dispensed with drawers entirely. Straddling him without any further ado, she pinned him to the ground and impaled herself upon his engine with relish. 

Dimmock seized her waist with wonder, making frantic declarations of love—further proof of Sally’s forethought, as he’d been pining after her for a month—while Sally worked her hips along his tool. Soon her rhythm stuttered and his words became even more incoherent, and they toppled back into the hydrangea. 

Fearing discovery, and wishing even more urgently to attain my object, I left them to it. 


	6. Sweet Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Irene Adler and Janine Hawkins, dairymaids, learned a novel trick in the hayloft.

Contrary to the others, the dairymaids Irene Adler and Janine Hawkins watched the mating on purpose. They were both young and their blood flowed hot, and Irene in particular was curious about all aspects of love that were possible in the world. 

Now, some of this was related to me later by an informant, who saw directly in to the hayloft from a vantage point somewhat below it, and some of it I heard myself from a slightly different point. You will perhaps call me a meddler, or an eavesdropper, or something of the kind, but I assure you I am always working for the greater good. 

“D’you think we’ll see his pizzle?” 

“Janine, must ye be so childish? Call it anything but that, do. And of course we’ll see it. That’s the point.”

“Oooh, I wonder if Mr. Holmes gets a stiffy when he sees it happen.”

“Janine, truly. Please. And Mr. Holmes is not interested in watching males and females mate.”

Janine grinned slyly; when Irene saw she was joking, she jumped on her and, in high good spirits, pushed her into the hay in a froth of petticoats. (This is all very pastoral, now, with blushing maidens (of a sort), and you are perhaps wondering where exactly I am going with my story, but, rest assured, there is material for interest.)

Janine struggled, but only to reach up and grab the ends of Irene’s fichu, pulling them loose from the tops of her small white breasts. Irene fell, theatrically, on top of her, and rosy lips met rosy lips in the sweet-smelling hay. Soon, Janine had lost her fichu as well, and Irene had pulled down her bodice to expose perfectly round, full bubbies. 

“Irene! What if they start?” 

“They’re not ready yet, not really. Do you like this?” Irene asked, flicking the tip of her tongue over a small, dark nipple. Janine considered, her face taking on an expression that was somewhat comical in a dairymaid being tumbled in the hay; it was an expression of meditation, of reflection, and it gave her a near-holy aspect. 

“I do, yeah. Do it some more.” Irene obliged, on both sides, until Janine was sighing with delight. 

“My turn now.” Irene exclaimed, but Janine had barely set her lips to Irene’s rosy teat when the sound of hooves on the cobblestones of the yard diverted their attention. They popped up in the window like curious cats, and watched, wide-eyed. As the mating progressed, they grew more and more restless, their hips swaying in response to the spectacle below. Irene stroked Janine’s bare breasts gently. Janine let herself be touched in increasing frustration, then pushed her away. 

“What good is it?” she said, pettishly. 

“You liked it last time,” Irene answered, somewhat taken aback. 

“It’s not enough. Here,” she said, and reached under Irene’s skirts, to touch her at the crux of her legs, “It’s here. Like Lisette de Rouen.”

By this time, the mating was over, and Lord Trevelyan had dropped back to the ground. He had not abandoned the mare, however; in a gesture that, for a brief moment, was reminiscent of Stamford’s careful care of Anthea, he licked her wide wet opening with several broad sweeps of his tongue. 

Irene turned to Janine. 

“That’s it. That’s it! Lie back.” And without further ado, she flipped Janine’s skirts up and surveyed the well-turned legs and spotless drawers before her. 

“Isn’t that awfully French?” Janine giggled, but when Irene’s fingers parted the fabric and touched the damp curls underneath, she settled back, gasping. Irene surveyed her carefully before settling down on her elbows, her nose nearly at a level with Janine’s sweet, untouched bud. She stuck her tongue out carefully, tasting for a moment, then gave a short lick. 

She was entirely unprepared for Janine’s reaction, which, in addition to the convulsion of her whole body, was also a cry loud enough to risk their discovery by some unoccupied passerby (though there were none, as I can vouch for). 

“Shhh!” Irene tossed Janine a fichu and did it again, with similar, though muffled results. She discovered that if she added short flicks, she was able to increase the trembling in Janine’s body, and, before long, induce her to spend copiously. With damp cheeks, she sat up triumphantly: Janine lay blinking and mazy-faced before her for a moment before pulling at her hands. 

“Come here, then,” and, settling Irene’s slender white thighs on either side of her face, she performed the same act on her, with equally pleasurable results. When I left them, startled out of my place by the clang of the stable door, they had arranged themselves, drawerless, in what I believe is commonly called soixante-neuf, and appeared to be greatly enjoying this timeless exercise.


	7. Love Everlasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sherlock Holmes, second son of a baronet, and John Watson, groom, consummated a love so evident that everyone else above said, to themselves and to others, “Finally!”, even in such benighted times as 1798.

When Lord Trevelyan and Lisette de Rouen both stood quietly, flanks heaving, John leaped into the paddock before Mr. Sherlock could say a word, and grasped the mare’s halter. Sherlock followed more slowly, watching his groom’s movements, knowing by the set of John’s shoulders that the man was angry. Sherlock also knew, to his secret delight, that John was aroused, the leap over the fence had been distinctly less fluid than usual, which betokened the presence of something delightful in his homespun trousers.

They led the horses back to the barns in silence. Only after the animals were in their stalls, carefully and methodically fed and watered, did anything that was quite out of the ordinary occur. 

“You knew what you were doing, didn’t you, Sherlock?” John’s familiarity was not unprecedented, but then he stepped right close to his master, and that was. Though Mr. Sherlock towers over John normally, it was John that held the moment, and it was there that Sherlock’s carefully constructed ruse (for that’s what it was, though later he would say that he had only been tired of hearing Mycroft complain about dirty forks) began to crumble. I have said that Mr. Sherlock likes authority, and young John has a natural, stern aspect that brings Mr. Sherlock to his knees, both metaphorically, and, as we will see, literally. 

The silence that fell was charged with several years’ worth of unspoken feeling, and neither man failed to notice it; John’s trousers were no less distended than they had been in the paddock, and Mr. Sherlock’s were rapidly becoming so. Yet they stood, staring into each other’s eyes as though they had all the time in the world.

“John,” Sherlock said, but the word did not break the oppressive silence into as he had hoped. Instead, John seized him by the back of his neck, and, giving him a shake, looked into his eyes for a brief moment before kissing him roughly. It was not a long kiss, just a brief clash of lips and stubble; John drew back before either of them was ready, breathing hard. 

There was no discharging of tension, rather, the shimmering passion of the kiss now hung between them as well. Sherlock’s eyes were wild and his hair tousled, and he was, momentarily speechless. John took a step back, suddenly horrified by his own temerity, and fell back into the hay.

He looked so very delectable sprawled there, his lips red and shining, his golden chest revealed by his loose linen shirt, and his snug leather trousers clinging to his thighs. Sherlock, now back to himself at least somewhat, towered above him, his grace that of an avenging angel now. 

“So that’s it, is it? You are taking liberties, John.” His voice was soft. 

Sherlock knelt in the hay at his feet and curled one large warm hand around John’s stockinged ankle. John remained silent, quivering, as Sherlock stroked his calf. Myriad emotions chased themselves across the groom’s mobile face, and Sherlock drank them in intently as he gradually made his way up John’s body, pinning him down into the fragrant mass.

When they were face to face, Sherlock’s knee between John’s thighs and his hands on either side of John’s head, there was another brief suspension of time before Sherlock lowered his lips to John’s once more. This time they touched from lip to ankle, and they were completely absorbed in the pull of the kiss and the heat of bodies. John grew emboldened once more by the embrace, and in nearly no time both were tugging at the other’s shirt. I have never seen a more lustful gaze in my life as when Sherlock, up on his knees for a moment, removed his fine linen under John’s hot eyes—that is, until John removed his rougher garment and Sherlock gazed on his beautiful lean chest for the first time.

They resumed their embrace silently, neither one being much given to talk in moments of high emotion, and the slide of their skin together had them gasping in short order. John was the first to break; he fumbled at the buttons of Sherlock’s breeches with an urgent hand, but Sherlock forestalled him.

“Me first,” he said, breathlessly, as he swatted John’s hand away. 

“Oh?” John panted, and watched, mesmerized, as Sherlock slid one finger under the laces of his fly, then another, finally letting loose a cock of the most beautiful shape and size. 

“Stand before me, John,” he ordered, his voice heavy with desire, and John stood, though his legs shook. His cock, framed as it was in leather trousers and undone laces, bobbed invitingly inches from Sherlock’s mouth, and the flash of glorious submission in Sherlock’s eyes was unmistakable. 

“Like that, is it?” John’s voice was suddenly amused. “Take it then, and make no noise.”

Sherlock licked his lips helplessly, and swiftly encompassed the flesh before him. John laced his fingers in Sherlock’s dark curls, encouraging his master to take in as much as possible. 

This state of affairs continued for no little time, the slick sound of mouth upon flesh and the rasp of breathing filling the stable, but eventually John drew out and pulled Sherlock to his feet and into another kiss. 

“Your turn,” John growled, and had Sherlock out of his trousers in a flash. Sherlock stood, more docile then than ever before in his life, letting John’s swift, competent hands range over his body. Only the occasional shiver and twitch showed his growing arousal until his knees buckled under the strain of staying upright. 

Then, their eyes met in a moment of utter complicity, and John caught Sherlock and, after one more fierce kiss, turned him over a convenient bale. At the sight of his master’s lush arse, John pinched the bridge of his nose, as though what was set before him was too much and too tempting, but soon he returned to his job like a bee to a flower. 

The jar of neatsfoot oil was, thankfully, to hand, or our story would have taken a decidedly uncomfortable turn, at least for young Sherlock. John applied a liberal quantity to his own hand and to the aforementioned arse, and prepared the way for his much larger engine with skill. It certainly caused me to adjust my perception of the man- I’ve seen him eye the dairymaids in a way that could only be described as lascivious, yet here he was about to bugger his master with evident pleasure. 

It was with equally evident pleasure that the preparation was being received. Sherlock was no longer silent, and, though his fist be in his mouth, he was making a great deal of noise in a surprising range of vocalizations and obscenities. With every sound, the smile on John’s face grew, and when he finally did set the oiled head of his cock against Sherlock’s slippery arsehole, he looked as happy as I had ever seen him.

“Now, for God’s sake, John, please,” Sherlock begged, and, as if that were the only thing he were waiting for, John pushed in. He paused, rather courteously, I thought, given his state of high excitement, but Sherlock urged him on until they were fully joined.

What followed was possibly the most joyous and loving act of buggery I have ever personally witnessed. John was careful but demanding, bringing his master to the point of crisis—but not beyond—again and again. Sherlock became progressively more pliable below him until John seemed to have complete control of those marble limbs. Once that goal had been obtained, John paused, just sufficiently that Sherlock felt the need to say “John” with the ghost of his last coherent breath, then, with swift strokes, brought them both to glory. They collapsed upon the hay in a sweat-drenched tumble, bodies twined together still. 

What sweet kisses they gave each other when they once again came face to face! They held each other close, and then the words came stuttering out, here and there, and all was made clear between them, the light and the dark, the stars and the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the likelihood of John wearing leather trousers is fairly small, but I want him to wear them, dammit, and so there you go. Call it artistic license. Or licentiousness. Either way.


	8. I, the Narrator, or Pleasure Postponed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How I, the storyteller, chose to take my pleasure.

I? Well, I am an intimate of the house, of course, and am positioned in such a way that I am privy to all goings-on. 

Now, rumours of my past as a French courtesan are only that- or are they? Nonetheless, I have always had an appreciation for the male form, and have, on many occasions, had the chance to gratify that appreciation. I never abuse what power I have in the house, of course, but if someone is willing, and he is to my taste, I have not one scruple about taking my pleasure with him. 

On this particular occasion, I had one individual in mind, and it is there that I was headed. I knew Sherlock would lure John into the stables; I also knew that, since the senior Holmeses were at home, that the new coachman, Lyons, would be in his quarters above the coach house, alone. He had taken the trick of sleeping late, getting up only before servants’ luncheon and calling hours. I could only hope to find him in his bed, for intelligence received from an unnameable source informed me that he slept entirely nude. This sight, said the same informant, was well worth any kind of trouble or contrivance.

And it was. Oh, it was. He was beautiful, dear reader, with a purity of line and sleekness of muscle only rarely seen. No words can do him justice, nor can they describe the delight with which he accepted my caresses and I his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editor’s note: Here there are signs that a page was torn from the manuscript, our narrator evidently feeling that a description of these acts was a step too far in self-disclosure.


	9. Epilogue: Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A report, dated September 28, 1798, in the same hand.

And what of Mr. Mycroft in all this? You might surmise, given his great love of sweet things, that he was left alone, at the end, with a plate of cake, while others paired off as they would. However, as though some psychic link connected the sexual escapades on the estate with his work in London, on that very day Mr. Mycroft was assigned an equerry, Harry, with whom he fell instantly in love. They don’t get home very often, poor dears, but Anthea has gone up to London and they all seem very busy and happy.

Lestrade married Molly before the summer was out, and they, too, are very content. I hear that there will be a new little addition to the estate soon, for which we are all very grateful. It should arrive at the same time as Lisette de Rouen's foals- yes, foals. It seems that outdoor breeding is rather a productive enterprise for horses, too.

Miss Watson and Mary do not like each other any better now than before, but the storms between them are more infrequent. Too, every so often the pantry door is locked and I am forced to turn a blind eye. It’s always better to let people work things out between them, isn’t it?

Second footman Stamford was left a small bequest by an elderly uncle (it was Mr. Mycroft, of course, who knows worth when he sees it). He has since married the vicar’s daughter and bought a snug little smallholding not far from the Manor. They have bouncing boy twins and raise lovely pigs; Flora, his wife, always has such a sweet smile on her face. 

Moriarty and Moran continue on as the Holmes Manor gardening staff, although Magnussen was embroiled in some scandal and was forced to leave the district. The rake has shown no ill effects and continues well. 

Sally Donovan was promoted to head housemaid, and, unless I miss my guess, will be housekeeper in some other manor before much more time is out. She’s sharp, that one, and no mistaking. Dimmock, though he means well, will be a footman all his life. 

Janine and Irene continue to be very neat-handed dairymaids, and very silly lovers still. I suspect they’ve been letting Dimmock tup them when they think Sally’s not looking, although unless I miss my guess she knows and cares not a whit. 

Of this explosive scene in the stables, I can relate no more. Suffice it to say, however, that Mr. Sherlock and John came to share a set of rooms over the coach house. It was dismissed in the town as characteristic eccentricity on the part of the baronet’s son, but it is, and has always been, more than that. Mr. Sherlock is happy now, in a way he had never been his life long, and John, though taciturn as ever, is happier still. 

Most importantly, as I’m sure you’ll agree, after the air cleared in this way, the house went back to running as smoothly as ever it did. The chair legs are impeccable, as is the silver, and nobody has had a poorly-cooked egg since that fateful day.

And, as I will soon retire, and have no need to hide my methods, I feel free to sign my name here, as a token of my truthful recounting of all the acts described herein. I remain, therefore, your honourable servant, 

 

Martha Hudson

 

P.S. I tested Stamford’s tool myself. I would recommend it highly.

P.P.S It was Mr. Sherlock, though, that told me about Lyons sleeping in the altogether. He loves John, it is true, but anyone with eyes would notice Lyons. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editor's Note: There are two bits of writing on the original text that are not in the same hand as what has been verified as Martha Hudson’s. The first, a broad scrawl in what is believed to be Sherlock’s writing, says “What tripe. She spied on Lyons herself- I never looked at the man.”  
> The second, in what is almost certainly John Watson’s, says simply “Yeah, you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> The hijinks that occur here are inspired by a variety of books, from Tristram Shandy and Tom Jones (narrative style), Tess of the D’Urbervilles (dairymaid information), Fanny Hill (the scene in which Fanny and her companion are peeping on a couple), Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series (the Percheron-breeding scene), and Jean M. Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear series (in which Ayla and Jondalar watch mammoths mate, and things go as you might expect). There’s perhaps a little of the tone of George McDonald Fraser’s The Pyrates in here as well, for which I can only apologise.
> 
> Really, though, this whole thing comes down to a very salacious dream about I had about dairymaids after falling asleep reading Elizabeth Gaskell’s Sylvia’s Lovers.
> 
> Also, the name Philip means “lover of horses.”


End file.
